The Lambeth Girls, May 1945
For once, the paperboy was shouting good news and the billboards screamed victory. Peggy hurried back across Waterloo Bridge, clutching her sheaf of newspapers, her heart pounding in her chest. Hope had been building for days, with the Nazi armies falling like dominos and the Allies gaining ground, despite so many years of defeat. George would be free soon, she could feel it in her bones, but she wouldn’t be truly happy until he was back home.
People were already celebrating, beeping their car horns and Peggy saw two vans piled full of teenagers, with some hanging off the doors and others crammed into the cab, laughing, smoking, drinking and waving flags, heading up into Trafalgar Square to join the crowds dancing in the fountains. Celebrations had already kicked off up there last night but today the whole of London was going to have a massive knees-up for VE Day.
The excitement was palpable. After more than five years of blackouts, bombings and misery, the war was over. The city had been blasted to bits in places but its spirit was not broken and with two days to celebrate Victory in Europe, Churchill intended to show that to the world.
Peggy made her way down to her mum’s flat in the Borough and found Kathleen and Eva already there, with a bottle of sherry open on the table.
‘George will be home soon, don’t you worry no more,’ said Mum, embracing her. ‘We can put all this behind us and get back to normal again, you’ll see.’ Peggy reluctantly took a sip of the drink that had been poured for her.
‘You have to come and celebrate with everyone, Peg. I won’t have it any other way,’ her mother added. She was right. The war was over and Peggy needed to trust that things would be all right. They couldn’t go back to how they used to be; so much had changed, not just for her, but for everyone. Now was not the time to say that, Peggy understood. Eva and Kathleen were already chucking back the sauce and plotting a great evening.
Street parties for the children were hastily organized and Nanny Day clubbed together with Mrs Avens and Mrs Davies from number 16 Howley Terrace to do a big celebration. It was decided that the kids would all go along to join in. It was fitting, somehow, for the family to gather there, rather than down in the Borough. It was where they belonged, they all felt that.
Mrs Davies had kept a load of old bunting from the King’s Jubilee Party back in 1935 and that was strung from house to house, while the women pooled their resources to bake some fairy cakes and scones. There was no shortage of booze: rum, whisky and sherry were pulled from the back of cupboards and from under floorboards, where they had been stashed and held back for the moment it was all over. Tables and chairs were arranged in time-honoured fashion, in the middle of the road, with best tablecloths and china carefully laid out and endless cups of tea poured.
The kids from Tenison Street were there, bashing on upturned pots and pans with wooden spoons, making such a racket, as everyone sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and the ‘White Cliffs of Dover’. It was a case of the louder, the better. Punters brought their pints from the pub around the corner to join in and in the middle of it all, Mrs Avens sat down on her doorstep and sobbed her eyes out because her Johnny wasn’t there to see any of it. Mum and Mrs Davies gathered her up, dried her eyes and poured a stiff shot of brandy down her throat.
‘That’s the spirit!’ said Mum, as Mrs Avens managed a weak smile. ‘We cannot cry now, for the children’s sake. We have to put on our best face and show them the way forward. We’ve won and we can’t give in, for Johnny, for all of them.’
Patsy gave Mum a hug, just as Dad sauntered out of the house. He looked at them both, spat on the ground in disgust and walked off to the pub, where he spent the rest of the day. He could never accept his Margaret being with another man, but she’d made her mind up, he knew that, and there was no changing it.
A huge bonfire was lit on the waste-ground at the end of the street and the smell of burning wood filled the evening air. People were doing the same all over the borough, lighting fires like little beacons to end the blackout. Children looked on in wonder, many of them having been born in a time when night only meant pitch black and fire was the consequence of bombs dropped on innocent families.
As darkness fell, gangs of good-natured revellers, rowdy men and women in uniforms, came across the bridge into Lambeth, looking for more parties. No one wanted the celebrations to end. Someone had an accordion out and a fiddle and Kathleen’s old piano was pulled from its place in the front room to provide music. Kathleen wasn’t playing – she was too busy dancing, twirling around, as Albert watched her from the side-lines, leaning on a walking stick. His leg had been badly shot up in Italy and he’d been shipped home a few weeks ago to convalesce. Kathleen didn’t talk about it but Eva and Peggy both feared it hadn’t done his temper any good. Eva caught the look in his eye as an American GI swept Kathleen up and down the street in a foxtrot, while everyone clapped and whooped them on. Albert would have started another war there and then, if his leg had been up to it, Eva felt sure of that.
Peggy was woken by the most almighty hammering on the door the next morning. She wasn’t one for drinking but she’d definitely had a few too many and she could have done without the early-morning wake-up call.
‘All right!’ she yelled, pulling on her dressing gown. ‘I’m coming.’
She pulled open the door to find Kathleen’s mother-in-law, her hair still in curlers, standing there with Della in her arms. The baby was crying as she was thrust towards Peggy.
‘It’s Kathleen,’ she said. ‘There was an accident last night. She’s in the hospital. I can’t look after the baby, I’ve got Albert to care for, you see, with his leg and all. You’ll have to take her.’
‘What happened?’ said Peggy, stroking Della’s hair to calm her down.
Albert’s mother couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘She slipped and fell downstairs and hurt herself, silly girl.’
Peggy and Eva sat at Kathleen’s bedside, holding her hand as she slept.
She had two black eyes, a swollen lip and her head was swathed in bandages. Her beautiful curls were all matted with blood and her face so pale she looked like a broken doll lying there, rather than their sister.
The nurse came over to them. ‘She will sleep for a good while now. The doctors say rest is the best cure. Her skull is fractured but although they are confident that there is no bleeding to worry about we need to keep a close eye on things. You can come back later in the day, at visiting time. We’ll take care of her, I promise.’
Eva was shaking as she stood up.
‘We’d better tell Mum,’ said Peggy eventually.
‘You go,’ said Eva, her hands closing into fists, ‘I’m going to find Albert.’
Eva had never been one to judge people by where they lived; she’d grown up poorer than most.
But this grimy little street in Vauxhall really was a disgrace. It had houses with dirty windows and grubby net curtains and the front steps hadn’t been swept in an age, judging by the state of them.
She arrived at Albert’s door. A pint of milk was still on the front step, so she picked it up before banging loud enough to raise the dead. She noticed, with a self-satisfied smile, that a few curtains were twitching.
His mother answered, hair in curlers, still wearing a housecoat and slippers. She folded her arms. ‘What do you want, then?’
‘I need to talk to Albert,’ said Eva. ‘I have got a message from Kathleen.’
‘Who is it?’ Eva heard his voice from the scullery and he hobbled out with his stick as his mother retreated down the hallway.
‘Well, what’s up?’ he asked, leaning on the doorframe, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
‘You’d better step outside,’ said Eva. ‘I can’t tell you this in front of your mum.’
He was easing himself down the front step and into the street, when she raised the milk bottle high in the air and smashed it down, hard, on the top of his head.
Albert screamed, from the shock of it and the pain, as splinters of glass embedded in his scalp. Milk coursed down his face, mixing with blood from the cuts on his forehead, and his walking stick fell to the ground.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he cried, putting his hands to his head and sweeping shards of broken milk bottle to the ground. ‘What did you do that for?’
Eva held the broken bottle by the neck and jabbed it towards Albert’s face. ‘That is from me and Peggy and Kathleen.
‘If you hurt her, you hurt all of us. We’re sisters. Blood is thicker than water and don’t you forget it.’